bebbwillow | workshop

She Is For The Weak And Wise (Revised)

2010-11-08T16:02:00.000-08:00

She is for the weak and wise.
Her, no clever coy disguise.
My sense of safety risks no rise
From She or Her colorless eyes.

Her kiss was not the sweetest grace
That my naive young lips would taste.
Not Her green eyes did thoughts displace,
But I was lost in Kali's face.

I did not throw myself at She
Just to recoil instantly.
She uttered no heart-scouring plea,
But Annie bore the tragedy.

It wasn't She who, all alone,
Ensnared my heart to forge Her throne.
She did not shatter all I'd known,
But Meghann splintered hope like bone.

Come, Boy, speak up now, crass and clear
To utter truth in utter fear
'Til smudged is penmanship by tear.
The Bard to Muse speaks. Let Her hear.

Kali, I was not worth your time.
Annie, how I lament my crime.
Meghann, your smile still stings sublime.
My Love, you've never left my mind.

A Falling In

2010-10-27T14:30:00.000-07:00

My muse wears hues Ukrainian,
Bright auburn eyes, sienna skin.
Where jawline flows to flawless chin
Her slightest smile beguiles men.
Thus effortless was I drawn in,
Thus, stupefied, did toil begin.

Though, I confess, my eyes are weak,
Know this: even to fools like me
Mere pits of beauty prove no feat.
While miles wide they lie and wreak,
While sirens, songs employed, snag feet,
Perfumed edges are seldom deep.

So how, five months since first locked glance,
Do I remain so deep in trance?
Subtle this trap, no vast expanse,
Yet walls expand as I advance!
Or do I shrink beneath their slants?
To what depths have I plunged perchance?

Strange muse, I've heard her soft whisper
To no one in particular
Her utmost for His highest mirth,
Consistencies of soil and earth,
Intent to see the last made first.
Such myst'ry beats my heart for hers!

Therein my myst'ry is expelled,
That once into her first I fell
I fell with still no floor to tell
For beauty deep as Jacob's well.
I'll wrestle with my muse angel
Until she calls me Israel.

Untitled

2010-10-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

An adult male

Soiled and knowing it

Incapable of this life

For now or for good

If I offer no cup of cold water

What is the cost?

Don't look

Down my throat

A dangerous alleyway

Dark with greasy walls

Dripping

Oozing tar

Beats something

Unsavory

If I offer from a chest like this

What is the cost?

Rich

We ought to need

As the poor overflow

Fat

We slowly starve

But the gaunt will feast

Snug

We will shiver

When the naked are clothed

Sheltered

We best fear

For the vulnerable will know True rest

Yet nothing is moved that suffers no touch

So until this distance be bested

All remains unmoved

Unsavory

where sound dies

2010-09-07T14:30:00.000-07:00

you will find me there
always at the boundary
right where sound dies

the voice reaches out for me
the tendrils of timbre attempting to call me back
not with words but with tone and pitch

i will feign oblivion and think,
"you don't exist without me"
and then i will shake with fear
knowing that my audaciousness
condemns me

i want to believe it's romantic

No one needs to plant the weeds.

2010-08-14T07:02:00.000-07:00

This is a guest post from my friend Kathy Wilson. I enjoyed it so much that I decided you should all read it too. Enjoy.

(photos taken 7.29.10)

Grace and I picked raspberries and blueberries at a friends recently. Grace lost interest pretty quickly, more interested in feeding the chicken clover heads and talking to our friend, Casey, who was weeding some of the nearby vegetable gardens. I was a couple gardens over and could hear snippets of Grace's continuous questions and Casey's patient answers.

(photo taken 7.29.10)

One of her answers that has stuck with me,

rattling around my mind,

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

(photo taken 7.29.10)

I'm sure there is a magical far-away land where the zucchini is weighing down the plants with no one to pick them, juicy tomatoes run amok, various herbs gone wild and fields of carrots feeding herds of rabbit, to say nothing of azaleas, rhododendron, dusty miller and mums. But not here.

Here, we thoughtfully pick seeds from the store while ignoring the half empty seed packet at the back of the junk drawer, carefully cultivate seedlings indoors in April and May as it's still to cold to plant outdoors, prepare fertilized, tilled beds for the fragile growth, covering them at the slightest frost warning, and weed the garden.

Always weeding the garden. Because the weeds will come.

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

And if you want the good stuff, the pretty stuff, the tasty stuff, you have to weed the garden.Unless you like a yard full of Creeping Charlie with some grass thrown in, a flower garden filled with thistle, or a vegetable garden choked with weeds, you have to remove the undesirable, remove the chaff, separate the wheat from the tares.

You can't garden through omission.

"No one needs to plant the weeds,"

but they'll keep showing up anyway.

If you don't' choose to be proactive

(photo taken 7.29.10, 2 weeks later)

the weeds will begin to choke out the growth so carefully cultivated.

"No one needs to plant the weeds."

It's a warning, a charge to be careful,

be diligent, pay attention.

It's a lot like life.

Don't mind me - I'm just weeding out loud.

A Dream of Great Aunt Rae

2010-07-27T06:23:00.001-07:00

Last night I had one of those dreams that even after you've been awake for a while you are sure really happened.

I was somewhere dreamish, and I was with my Grandpa, and my Great Aunt Rae. Aunt Rae died years ago, but in my dream she was there. We used to call her the Jelly Bean lady because she always had a bowl of those delicious things ready for my young hands. In the dream she was sick and could barely talk, and I put my hands on her and prayed for peace and comfort. As I prayed she laid her head down face first and peacefully died. My Grandpa and I then began to weep, and I felt connected to him more than I ever have.

I awoke sobbing, and my face was wet with tears.

division minor

2010-07-04T16:56:00.000-07:00

I guess things aren't as bad as they used to be,
but now they scare me more.
Things could be a lot worse, but now I understand the how.
I don't see a way out of this. I don't know which way is up.
Down is pretty clear.
It makes him cry. She just sits there and eats a hotdog.
Now they are lining up shoes on the window sill,
like invisible people who go naked but refuse to uncover their feet.
They are lined up and ready to jump.

Cancer Ward

2010-07-02T19:30:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Cancer Ward by AleksandrSolzhenitsyn, and it has moved solidly into my my all time top 5 novels. It blew my socks right off.

Every subject that Alex touches on left me feeling like I understand that subject and humanity a little better. Every page is engaging, and the story is raw and real. I believed this story. I believed all of the characters. I've met some of these characters! He writes about love, lust, politics, socialism, medicine, relationships, death, work, joy, despair, betrayal, luck, fate, and the general sexiness of nurses (ok, that last one is a stretch), and he pulls you into each and every one like a master painter pulls you into the subjects on the canvass. Cancer is a metaphor for death, fate, mortality, and parts of Soviet society, but it is also a metaphor for those intangible seemingly random things that draw people together and force them into close and intimate proximity.

My top five is now, in no particular order:

Cancer Ward - AleksandrSolzhenitsyn,

Peace Like A River - Leif Enger,

My Name is Asher Lev - Chaim Potok,

Till We Have Faces - C.S. Lewis,

The Storm - Frederick Buechner.

I've now read this, Ivan Denesovich, and Gulag by AleksandrSolzhenitsyn. I can't wait to start reading everything else. 9.8/10

The Rush of the Sucker River

2010-06-10T08:01:00.000-07:00

My substance is such
That I cannot bear much
Save this short summer rush,
Save this reach down and touch.
Found no worse for the wear,
Though no better; no care.
Cost, the fear of my fare:
Lost, the deer slipping snare.
My new sister and friend,
Forgive, untake my hand.
Let's start walking again
Lest our talking should end.

Wurlitzer

2010-05-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

I knew you well inside this house, and you allowed it all. You bore my foibles with grinning patience, and that grin, well, I tickled it.

I'll play a strange song today as we set out for our stroll. What do you know, the wind is joining right in, and the fog, too. The men on the rooftops are keeping time with their hammers. The girl with a bicycle is doing a dance. The man and his damn dog are writing their review, scathing and unamused. No one will read it.

They'll all just watch and try to discern. "Uprights for joyrides? Well, I never." Yet by we pass, me holding you up around corners, while you hold the note. Somehow, we're both succeeding, knowing each others' limits but not letting on to a single soul.

We'll likely never stroll these streets again, but... no, not now. Let's not know that right now. Let's make like it's old hat, this promenade. Here, how about that old tune, the one about old what's-her-face, in the good old key of E. A one and a two and a one two three -- red light. Driver, take a left.

Take us someplace nice, someplace with a story. Take us to the hideout of some old rum-running, moon-shining sonvabitch. Some forgotten piece of unimportant history.

Prop the doors for us, now, as we waltz in and clumsily amble down the narrow stairway. I know, Friend, that your legs aren't what they used to be. It's okay, we made it. Just rest here a while.

Single Take

2010-05-26T06:32:00.000-07:00

This body of mine... I've only seen this thing through a glass dimly. Or on a screen, two-dimensionally. I've never, nor will I ever, have experienced it live, unfiltered, unpixelated, unprocessed.

You have, though. Sometimes you smile because you know I'm inside. I like that. Sometimes you don't. I understand that.

When you don't, is it because you can read as I do? Are you fluent in the language of surgical steel and yellow-ridged craniums? Can you make out the dichotomous standstill? Do they betray my secret struggle? They must.

Alright, then. I'll admit it. I don't know if I'm ready to put away childish things just yet. At times I come close, but stop short, asking, "Will I miss them when I only see them in pictures?"

Can you discern by these fingernails that I'm a worrier, like my mother? These nails have never seen what lies atop the fabled hill. They're confined to their little window, quarantined and allowed no further.

This mock-stubble, can you see it? (Step closer.) The clutter of my mind makes it hard to see the to-do list hanging on the back wall. Two or three weeks ago now I wrote "buy new razors" on that list.

I suppose you see right through these crooked spectacles, too? Okay, yes, like I said, I have a hard time keeping up with the detailed demands of daily life, so if I can pick them up, put the lens back in, bend the frame back into submission, then I can go another day yet without dooming them to the list. Task averted.

See how my left wrist doesn't tell me the time anymore? It just let's me go on and on until I happen by a clock and hear it say that I've lost the luxury of a leisurely pace. I can hear it now.

An abrupt end... unintentional, but fitting I suppose.

Untitled

2010-05-19T06:51:00.000-07:00

I shaved my head today. I shaved my beard today. I shaved off my sense of distance and isolation right down to the skin and let the grief come flooding in.

My friend is having brain surgery today. I will not talk about it on Facebook. I will not throw salvo's of meaningless religious language into that void. I will shave my head and keep my belly empty and hungry.

Run down the hall screaming and crying. That's the sane thing to do. Throw your finger into the Master's face and say "If you would have been here my brother wouldn't have died." The Master calls you blessed for outbursts like that. Then the Master asks where they have put the victim, and then the Master weeps.

I love Woman

2010-04-29T08:29:00.000-07:00

I love woman, it is her work that I love,
Her hands always toiling, her mind
dwelling just above and to the left.
The fruit turn color and ripen,
even as they sway and dangle.

Can you see her bent over in her garden?
I adore woman, no weed is left unconquered,
and her children will surely rise up
out of the ground and call her blessed,
her fingers full of dirt and moist earth.

Delicious shadows, even without my eyes
I see her sliding and moving.
She is fluid, and I drink woman in.
I take up the goblet like a drunkard,
my fingers full of hair and skin and mystery.

Shall we pour out this time upon the ground?
Will I hear your words AND their meaning?
My roots and tendrils are exposed. Safe.
I love person, person is extravagant, complete
I am fascinated and married to her.

Snacking

2010-04-29T06:57:00.000-07:00

Oh God, I despise my impatient lips!
I hate my gluttonous tongue!
I grow fat on fantasies,
On sweet morsels made of sugar and lard.
It is not even time for dinner
And yet I cannot bear another bite!
What when the meal is served?
When I no longer need to sneak sweets
Behind her back
As though I doubt she is preparing any meal at all?
When the meat is laid out in front of me,
The scent of its wafting steam storming my olfactory?
"No, thank you. I couldn't."
Teeth already rotted out.
Diabetes begging for a sweeter course.
I snack all day.
I fill my mouth to slake the pangs of boredom.
I munch.
Devour.
I shovel it in because I cannot bear patiently
The mystery growling through my guts.
With each grumble of my appetite's greed
I respond with spoon and fork,
With happy meals,
With processed, heat-lamped products
Smothered in cheap cheese
And plastic condiments.
Gritty and crunchy.
Charred edges.
Frozen centers.
I've lost my appetite
As I wait for the dinner bell to toll.

Snapshots from my silly youth

2010-04-27T12:03:00.000-07:00

I saw a bunch of people from high school this past weekend. Seeing them brought back a whole bunch of memories. I was pleasantly surprised that the guilt of my youth didn't all come roaring back with each memory. The redeeming power of a relationship with Jesus in action.

Here are some of the memories. Snapshots from my silly youth.

I saw Jessica Schaetzke and I remembered this: The spring after my sophomore year, Jessica and I and about 30 others went on a choir trip to Europe--Germany, Czech Republic, and Poland. Our tour was two weeks long and we sang a concert, with songs like Tanguendo and Prayer of the Children in them, every day, and one day two. We sang in churches much older than any in the US. I remember they each had stunning stain glass windows--must have taken years and years just to create and build them. In one church in Ulm we climbed over 700 steps to the top of the church steeple. We saw so many castles they almost became indistinct. We toured Auschwitz and Birkenau, sang a song at the shooting wall, and held each other and wept. I remember all I wanted at that moment was family, and I grabbed my sister Anna and we found some solace from the incredible sorrow of that place.

And every night Brian, Jeff, Zack and I would go to the local discos and bars. I had my first beer in Germany. I bought my first fifth of vodka in Prague. I almost passed out on a park bench in Heidlburg. I survived the most insane taxi ride--imagine tiny, tight little European roads, traveled at ridiculously stupid high speeds, and me and Jeff in the back seat literally hanging on for dear life. Granted we were drunk--so it was probably not nearly as bad as we thought it was. I remember the chaperone parents buying us drinks--this of course struck me as incredibly ironic, but I didn't turn down their offers. I recalled some of these memories with Jessica, and she was surprised to hear that I did any of this--I was a pretty straight-laced kid. I remember I felt horribly bad that Sparky had to sit out the last concert because he had a glass of wine with the host family--he was punished for the sins of the rest of us party-ers.

I saw Dave Luchsinger and I remembered this: We wore sparkly vests in Pops Choir in Jr. High. He always did an excellent John Wayne impersonation in math class. He wanted to become a policeman. And he did.

Neither of us were sure what to think of the other growing up. I think we wanted to be friends but there were elements of each of our character that rubbed against each other in an aggravating way. He was carefree, had no problem talking to girls, and I was a hard-nosed, self-righteous goober...who wished he could talk to girls. I think we settled all that this past weekend. If given the opportunity, I would choose to spend much more time getting to know Dave. Turns out we share a love for Mumford & Sons--so we can't not be friends.

I saw John Wiger and remembered this: In seventh grade I was the new kid in school. Heck, I was the new kid in school with the weird name who had just come from being home-schooled. Recipe for social suicide. Which I committed numerous times. Randomly around the end of the year things started looking up though. I had made a friend (Greg--whose wedding we were all celebrating this past weekend), I was learning to shut my big mouth and therefore I hadn't gotten beaten up in a few weeks.

This was the year I would discover my love of theatre. It all started when I got recruited to help on the set crew for that year's musical, The Wizard of Oz. Yeah, you heard right...set crew. I wore all black. I moved with lightning speed. I made no sound. And I moved sets between scenes. This is where I met John. He was a Sr. Higher. But he got recruited to move sets too. Oddly enough some of the theatre girls started taking notice of me--I think it was all the black, which is probably why I still wear so much of it. Anyway--my lasting memory of John was this. He saw these jr. high drama queens (on many levels) trying to talk to me and he surmised this...he said, "Asa, you're the shiz."

I don't know what that is, but I think it's good.

Where's the Rand McNally Already?

2010-04-20T05:51:00.001-07:00

They talk about weak spots in terms of chocolate cake and lottery tickets. My weak spot begins with a slow, internal sigh, a few hopeless thoughts flitting through my mind like forlorn moths bumping into screen and then a dive into a jagged hole of despairing introspection.

Where is my life going? If I grow, will I ever feel like it's enough? And, even then, will it all flop? Failure? Failure. Failure.

Weird coming from someone newly engaged, recent first home-buyer, less than one year old business starter. Yet I find my head constantly swiveling between black and white photos saluting the Statue of Liberty and Jesus returning on a horse.

I'm just saying.

I recently saw the new Alice and Wonderland. Aside from suddenly wanting cakes that say "Eat Me" to appear, there were three lines in it that stuck out in an eyebrow-furrowing, heart-thump kind of way. This was it: at three different points in the movie - three moments throughout the elaborate and adventurous and, of course, lesson-learning journey of Alice through Wonderland - the wise and mystical caterpillar (the one smoking the hookah, of course) said these things to Alice and in this order:

#1) You're hardly Alice.

#2) You're not quite Alice.

#3) You're Alice, at last.

Strangely, this helps me.

Because if I take a turn in my introspection from the gloom and despair and doubt and ask myself why I care so stinking much about where my life is heading, I realize this driving ache has been there since I was eating Gerber's and sitting in Desitin. I. want. to. become.

And then I remember this. Jesus actually knows who, as fleshy, pooping babies, we were intended to become. He knows how those few years in childhood put guilt on us we can't shake or how that relationship pumped us full of fear and worry or that we have been steeped in a culture that taught us to love and be loved conditionally.

He prods us. Pushes us. Asks for permission to change things, show us new organs he wants to put in us and does the surgery, to boot. Challenges us. Doesn't do the expected. Is painfully simple with his love. Treats us unlike the grandma or the boyfriend or the wife or the pastor or the best friend did.

We give ourselves to this and find out it's doing things to us. We. are. becoming. So much so that hope is snowballing and a part of me believes that at the end Jesus will take a drag of his hookah, exhale through his nose and say, "Jordan, at last."

Jazz Night

2010-04-17T23:22:00.000-07:00

I am proud to follow in your footsteps. I do not speak in silly cliche or metaphor.
It is your real and blood filled foot stepping over rock and root.
When you fall I laugh and celebrate, and you laugh too because we share it.

I am proud to climb to rickety heights with you, to stand on places that Olympians have stood.
We love and tumble as men, and our grandfathers look on proudly.

Do you have such as us? Do you stake out your place in the night boldy, or
do you crawl into bed fed by gruel and television.

I will take my meat, and I will have this night and gladly give you
50 ignoble days in exchange.... and I will not let it be taken from me
by any force of man or time.

Mike's Self Portrait

2010-04-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

I am the Viking warrior.
I am a Polish slave.
I am a German worker.
I am a Scottish king.

Through histories fog and misfortune, I have been molded, scolded and folded into this man you see before you. This blond haired, blue eyes, misfit, this lazy ass tumbling, this “I don’t wanna budge” adolescent caught between willy nilly and 80 year old windows to my soul.

I am a conniving thief, I am a miracle, I owe you more, but you wont get it from me. I am mostly lost, yet it’s finally finished, I am done, I am scared, I give up, I stand up, I fight, I am a wavering walking contemptuous contradiction. I will give much, and leave you wanting, I will try hard, yet never will I be enough.

What I want I will not have, what I crave I can not fight for, when I think of me, I think of black and red, I think of white and I think of blue, I am a grayish purple hot rod soon to go out of style.

I am a creek of culmination, I am an estuaries end, I will be used, and I will be be abused, but you’ll never have me, I am confident only when you are not around and when you are I will give you nothing more than ambiguous answers but they will be simultaneously short and to the pricks point.

Look to the sun and you will see me, I am amongst the shadows, I AM close and I am all things to all men forever and then I will be who I want to be, someday I will come together, until then I am broken and in pieces.

Confession

2010-04-07T05:28:00.000-07:00

What am I doing here, you ask?
I've got no place left to go.

You want a confession?
Wrap your goulash around this.

I'm a murderer. I've pointed a revolver at another man's chin, cocked back the hammer, and pulled that heavy trigger until the hammer swung down and smashed into the blasting cap. I watched his face explode in slow motion, and I marveled at the lovely pattern his brains made on the powder blue wall behind him. He's still alive, but I'm a murderer all the same.

You want more?
Pull down your sequin sunglasses and take a gander at this.

I'm an adulterer. I've been in bed with hundreds of of different women in my life. I used her body, but she never saw mine. I degraded and humiliated her, and to top it all off these lovely ladies never knew my name or saw my face.

Are you sick of it yet?

I've cheated, lied, stolen, broken, beaten, coveted, slandered... I think you're starting to get the picture.

Why am I here on the bloody ground in front of this ancient torture device? I've got no other place left to go.

Approach

2010-04-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

#1

I don't feel as You can. I can't.
Incapable as a shoe.
In some fashion
It manages to be
Simultaneously unbearable
And absolutely Right.

#2

Don't give me a second thought.
No no, you just eat and expound and caffeinate.
Why would I want your condition?
Lucky for me, it's about as contagious as a parked car.

#3

My:
A made-up
Plastic
Flammable concept.
Draw it out.
Delivered by the snake,
Accepted under skin, then
It festers
Erasing bone,
Consuming blood,
Creating lack.

Direction for a Self-Portrait

2010-04-01T09:07:00.000-07:00

I’d start with a round shape. Well, I guess if we’re going to get fancy, let’s do almond. A Japanese person once told me I had an almond-shaped face. But they’re strange that way, always eating seaweed and bean curd and stuff.

Add some yellowy snarls of hair around that thing. Imperfectly parted and disobedient. Include some commentary from my grandmas while you’re at it – twenty-eight years into this thing called life and they still can’t get over that I have curly hair. Maybe they’re jealous I won’t need a permanent when it’s time for the round-head all women are fated for. Or maybe they’re flipping through the files of their brothers and sisters, in laws and uncles by way of my tresses, remembering which ones had curly hair, too, and how it was in great uncle Gordon’s hair as well. But we don’t talk much about him.

Don’t forget the fixings. Lips that pull over smallish teeth and gargantuan gums, two bluey eyes, a set of ears and an Anglo-Saxon beak. And skin. Sticks of concealer have told me I’m fair, ivory, light cream. I would suggest tying a whitish crayon to a pinkish one to an orangish one and giving the forehead a good scribble. You’ll get the point.

And of course there are the smatterings:

: The mini crater on the seam of my left nostril, once an astoundingly large pimple in tenth grade. My dad called it my twin sister. Mary Simensen and I, in our genius way of prescribing topical remedies, slathered wart remover on it. It burned through my skin – no, I should say it ate through my skin. But I guess it did the job.

: Scar on the bottom of my chin from a tragic roller skating accident.

: Slight circles under eyes.

: Constant flaring of nostrils (if you can do that on paper, that’d be great).

If you want to apply a general feel, I’d bend pieces and lines to the tune of intrigued - maybe an eyebrow up, or something. It’s OK if you can’t erase it. It’s a good idea to me. A life full of questions and interest and pursuit.

Shaving Day

2010-03-31T06:27:00.000-07:00

It's the last day of march, and that means time to shave off my two year beard and make way for Mustache April. That's right. Mustache April.

I must admit, there were a few tears streaming down my cheeks as I sheared off my long luxurious face-mane.

Oh well, it will certainly grow back, but for now I will enjoy a solidarity of one. Let Mustache April begin!

More Rough Stuff.

2010-03-30T14:54:00.000-07:00

I stutter here

trying to pull down words

metaphors

clever twists

that can spell love, thankfulness and desire

I want to leverage them like boulders from my mind

so they could roll down this page

but my hand is weak on the lever

and my mind slow and stuttering

Because thses boulders are too big for a page

too big for a day

too big for me

the wieght of your love is five blankets in december keeping me from the cold

the wieght of my thankfulness is the weight of water in june pressing your ears but holding your body free

The weight of my desire is the is the wieght of gravity, unyealding , inevitible , constant

So I stutter

try my hand

determined to return

and attempt to leverage again

2010-03-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

It's never enough.

Zenith Lake

2010-03-25T23:01:00.000-07:00

Back to the grove of ancient trees I take my soul, I take my soul
Beyond the sunset and the moon, out past the twilight in the north
Beneath the shadow of their age voices whispered with respect
To climb is to ascend the sky, the windblown symphony on high.

Back to the stillness of the lake I take my soul, I take my soul
Through broken trails and splashing brook, out past the twilight in the north
Floating on our tiny ark, two by two we paddle through
Shelter from the cities flood of noise, filth, and senseless blood.

2010-03-23T12:22:00.000-07:00

I cried a bit. Which is silly really, because it wasn't real at all. Then again, neither were the tears.

Papa, time to get up, he yelled, tugging at the covers. Huh? I plucked my tongue from the roof of my mouth and swallowed twice. That sh** taste didn't leave; it wasn't even lessened. Papa! Here I got a kiss for you, he planted one on the back my unshaved head. Gettup breakfast is ready, he shouted. Uh huh, yes, I replied burying my face deeper into the pillow.

After jumping on me, pulling blankets off me and tickling my toes a bit, I got up.

I pulled on old clothes. Blinked copiously. Wiped drool from my lower lip.

I wasn't sure why I was sad, not just tired but sad. I don't often wake up sad. I wiped my eyes. No tears, just crusties, sand, some goobers in the cracks. I was downstairs in the bathroom when I remembered. I was crying, weeping, sobbing, when was that? I remember my body shaking, my lips like little leaves in the wind. I remember Michael's hand on my shoulder as I fo0und the end of myself and sobbed. I sobbed so hard even he looked surprised. He'd put his hand on my shoulder and then walked away.

And then I remembered. In the fog of him walking away, was a little boy yelling, Papa, Wake UP!

So I can't remember the last time I cried in a dream, but although my pillow was dry this morning, I had that feeling, the release of having a good cry. Which is a bit foolish, because none of it was real.

Journal Entry

2010-03-23T06:48:00.000-07:00

3-22-10
7:51pm

By the time I reach the far cover of this journal I will have changed. (By the time I reached the end of that sentence I had changed.) Some changes will have been for the better; I will have learned more about myself, strengths and weaknesses, my body, my soul, women, my King, I will have aged another year, I will have become more skilled at various tasks and arts, and so on. I pray that far fewer will have been for the worse, though i know that mistakes will have been made, some for the first time, others the many-thousandth, and still others the last. I will have hurt loved ones and neglected strangers. I will have built barriers where bridges would have proven a better fit. I will have let down a great many, and will have been let down by the same. So much could be said, and with such unwavering certainty, of the effects this world will have had on me and I, in return, on it, for it is a matter of fact that I am inconsistent.

You, on the other hand, are anything but. You simply and terribly Are. Though my eyes will have been taunted, tinted, tainted by many a flashing thing, when they meet Yours they will find them freshly familiar, ancient in the most groundbreaking of ways. I am a choppy sea, and You a raging glass, a mirror in a hurricane. I am at the mercy of the hills and valleys alike, You are the Holy Redistribution, the plains of staggering heights and gaping depths.

I put all hope for a better tomorrow, a stable and worthwhile today, and a redeemed and utilized yesterday in Your broad hands, oh God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, hope of John, life of Paul, muse of Lewis and Weiss, mystery of generations. My awkward frame rests and rejoices on Your edgeless plateau of gracious and generous peace. For You Are.

May it be so.

the deed never done right

2010-03-21T17:27:00.000-07:00

this was new

he never let conscience or forethought creep in
he stabbed, he wiped his blade, he moved on

wouldn't slow down long enough
for it to sink in
moving quick, eyes darting, nervous
but never brave enough to admit it

i can feign it good enough to get close
and deal the blow
he thought

and he did
almost did
victims were always left maimed
the deed never done right
the dull, clumsy efforts of a novice

but now
he planned it
the angle and location of the blade
the distance to and from
the amount of strength and emotion it would take

yet

still he stumbled and fell

plunging his blade in
to strike an artery

once again he had floundered
just nicking the vein

I used to walk.

2010-03-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

I used to walk lazily across your valleys and plains,
all was flat and easy, your beautiful summer broken up with brief blasts
of winter's mischief.

Somehow you've changed. Now you are mountainous.
You are as beautiful still, but now also cold and dangerous.

I tried to climb for old time's sake, but now I lay dying, broken backed, busted.
My breath comes in ragged gasps from a pierced lung,
and I don't know what to do.

Never Sleep

2010-03-18T13:08:00.000-07:00

Have you ever kept your eyes closed and allowed the sensation of a quite room fill your heart?

Breathe in the air, a mixed fragrance of stale body and fresh water flowing in through the cracked window. The blankets making it a bit claustrophobic and yet your feet sticking out of the bottom of your covers just enough to get to breathe and for your mind to be at ease. I could feel the bed head catching drafts of fresh air as it circled my room, and with my eyes closed I can almost see the swirling of air, that had been around me all night long as I slept, or at least for the few hours I actually was able to. The warm air rising and the cool air falling to the ground, fighting dancing overhead.

I opened my eye and could see the gray dull light illuminating almost from the walls, but originating from the dull light outside passing through the white blinds. But as each little breeze caught the shades, the orange of a rising sun sprinkled into the room it seemed like magic, that we get to experience the color, that we get to see those hues.

I went to bed anxious and I woke up anxious, my heart beating fast, or at least it felt like it. As I took my pulse I couldn’t even tell if it was beating at all. I threw off the blankets and sitting on the bed placed my feet on the ground. I could hear the cars passing by a few floors below my apartment; puddles splashing, sand and pebbles crunching. Maybe too some voices off in the distance, or maybe just distant TVs. I kept waking up to that gray light that bleeds in through the drapes. With the orange lines of light stretched across my floor and the sticky gross hot feeling from an anxious sleep. The feeling came from somewhere in my chest. I knew the fuel that feed it was in between my ears, but nothing could stop the flow you’d need to put the fire out. Both working in a synergy I could not control. I took a deep breathe and closed my eyes trying to remember to relax my shoulders and concentrate on the breathing maybe I could just calm myself down with the old tricks my mom taught me, but they hadn’t worked in years and I knew it would be temporary.

I rose and walked to my door, the head ache was horrible, and the pounding of my heart increased, somewhat arrhythmic, but after a few beats back to normal, though the pressure in my head did not subside. I opened the door. The blue light shown from above the sink, forcing me to squint. I stubbed my pinky toe on the door frame and swore under my breathe. As I walked to the bathroom, I couldn’t decide, do I pee with the light on or off, was I awake enough to not pee on the floor, or did I need the light? One of the toughest questions that early in the morning.

As I turned on the water and pulled the metal thing to start the shower, my eyes fell back to the mirror. I had one of those moments, where I could not tell if I looked my age or not, if I thought anything was looking back, or if I thought reflections in mirrors were of any reality at all or just mere color I was able to experience. And then I remembered...

Today was the day. “Oh Crap!” I thought the air missing from my lungs, my eyes bounced around the bathroom. I had totally forgotten, that this was the first day of the biggest adventure I would ever take. The beginning of foreign travels, of mistakes and successes and the making of some of the best friends I would have, yet I didn’t know that yet, and the “Oh crap!” that was from the realization that I hadn’t packed yet. But first I have to back up, first you have to understand how I got there, standing in front of that mirror a bit dehydrated, engulfed in that feeling of great expectation and utter fear.

* * *

skin

2010-03-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

Skin, a thought.

you are altogether other,
you will not do, but to be you

i've tried on another skin
too slippery, oily, to be in
it slithered, it slack, it slumped
and i gave it back and humped on after another
i found it chaffed
i licked, it molted
but i kept it,
it sprouted
i wrapt it as one does
it grew cankerous and then some fuzz

a stray dog
with too many teeth
and not enough ribs
slobbered and chomped my chaffing skin
and ripped me clean

naked i protested
i set up a committee
and i, er, WE agreed
there must be a skin that could not be knocked or bleed
could be slick and sweet,
with large feet and probing eyes,
made for probing and batting lies
with lips to lock
and chest of barrels
and fists for querrils
and a set jaw for Gerils...

but the Dog came back
and broke up our agenda
bloodied our ears
embodied our fears
till we saw the mutt
drew us in and out
not willing to sit past

boney and bloodied
we walked on owned toes
wiping owned nose
dressing wounds with reality
holding bruises with clarity
(and by we, i mean me)

and we found, feckless and fearful
the sun did not burn us
the gazers did not haunt us
our own, did not roll us out with the empty bottles
we walked in skin
and owned the ones
we found ourselves in

A Bit of Good News

2010-03-16T20:55:00.000-07:00

Things are right, especially when they're not, and that's a bit of good news, isn't it? That I can wash my hands in the river of peace, resting on bended knee, even in the depths of August drought?

That I can embrace my jealous lover and be embraced with unmistakable passion in return, even as I hear the echo of the only two feet in the room reaching the only two ears.

That the very same mouth which only yesterday spoke fallacies as fact and fictions as Truth can today produce words as True and bold as the red on a fallen soldier's pierced lapel.

And this not of my own strength or wisdom, this not borne of my own devices or desires, but given unmerited and received ungracefully from a source whose reserves supply races, nations, kings, and beggars alike.

Not an ounce of good am I capable of producing on command, yet fruit grown out of the dead and buried seed presses through my branches and grows too large for my arms to support, for it is meant to fall.

2010-03-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

Flattery will get you anything. That's what my friend, Ellen, told me in high school. She had red hair and pouty lips. And she always got her way.

I can't really say we were friends. It was something more than that, and yet, in a lot of ways, something far less.

We started spending time together after my sister moved away for college. That's really what I was looking for. For her to be my sister, a replacement sister. To step into the gap that had been created with Anna living four hours away and no longer in the bedroom next to mine. Someone who gave advice on everything from what sweater I should wear to how to swim in the social waters of high school, who helped me see things from the female perspective, and was just comfortable and safe to be around. She was happy to do these things, but it didn't equate to a sisterly relationship for her. Rather it was the road to intense emotional bonding that would eventually lead to something more. And in truth, that is exactly what it ended up being, not my naive expectation of something neutral.

Soon we were writing each other these intense poetry-laden (often lyrics stolen from angst-y 90's alternative rock) notes. If I read them now I'm sure I would find them laughable, but at the time they ignited a fire in my belly. They brought up these emotions somewhere between lust, curiosity, and fear. I was never quite sure if I should run towards her or get the hell out of there. And that was torment to her, me never committing to anything solid, staying in that ambiguous state.

That was all more then ten years ago now. And yet I still find myself doing the same thing.

Trying to manipulate my friendships and relationships into something that will meet my needs, and be exactly what I think it should be. Trying to suck life, comfort, love from those around me. And Ellen was trying to do the same to me, using flattery to lead me towards a deeper surrender, asking me to give things that weren't mine to give. For a while we used each other, but it was never enough, and it imploded, leaving us bitter and angry. Which lead to more angst-y notes passed in hallways en route to math class.

I take comfort in the words below. Nothing else has ever proven to be true. I know these words to be life giving as I've experienced the slow change of self-pleasing sin habits being burned up, and God breathed truth embedding itself in me.

1 John 3:18-24
My dear children, let's not just talk about love; let's practice real love. This is the only way we'll know we're living truly, living in God's reality. It's also the way to shut down debilitating self-criticism, even when there is something to it. For God is greater than our worried hearts and knows more about us than we do ourselves.

And friends, once that's taken care of and we're no longer accusing or condemning ourselves, we're bold and free before God! We're able to stretch our hands out and receive what we asked for because we're doing what he said, doing what pleases him. Again, this is God's command: to believe in his personally named Son, Jesus Christ. He told us to love each other, in line with the original command. As we keep his commands, we live deeply and surely in him, and he lives in us. And this is how we experience his deep and abiding presence in us: by the Spirit he gave us.

2010-03-13T23:59:00.000-08:00

We live on street corners and back alleys
pressing our faces against pastry laden store front windows.
We hear hawkers and hot doggers calling in the street,
but all we can do is stare and wonder.

I can't pretend very well, and
turning my eyes away when I think something that I shouldn't say
I disconnect from honesty for your sake, and
shuffle back.

Before and behind trailing blood, and
following a bloody trail I feel again a warm hand upon my shoulder.
Strangers give me drink and call it life's blood, and bread
body.

Now I see your face for the first time
although I've long known you by reputation.
Ragged, wretched, beaten, beautiful. My eyes
fill up with tears.

We Hoist Bottles to Harness the Wind

2010-03-09T17:31:00.000-08:00

Slightly alive in this world of furled sails
We nail plastic and glass to the mast.
No friend is the wind who comes now and again
Just to jest at our stagnant distress.

That cursed captain, he said "Listen well, all ye dead,
Land's a treasure, and I am the Key.
Hoist yer sails in wind gales that could empty the sea
But you'll ne'er budge an inch without me."

Childish riddles as these to my ears spoke disease;
Such a sailor as I earns his keep,
Yet he spoke as though toils would earn me no spoils
So I slit his damned throat in his sleep.

"Call me dead man again. You can die in my stead."
Snickered I as his pillow turned red.

Yet it seems he spoke truth, for now nothing we do
Moves our bow any nearer to home.
We've done all that we could to bring land to this wood,
Not a hint of slight progress we've known.

I've lost all hope in sails, they've failed time and again;
We hoist bottles to harness the wind.

The Germans Call It Fruehling

2010-03-09T06:41:00.000-08:00

The world smells like dog poop these days.

Thawing preserves from Labrador walks and Terrier runs, creating obstacle courses for melting streams of snow and strollers. Mutt Mitts are shockingly neglected in the months around the winter solstice. Probably secretly. And bitterly.

The earth squishes. As if it's given up its grudge, finally caved in on that thing it said it wouldn't do. Like the time Jennifer Zawislak did invite Karly Kaneski to the birthday party, even though the fight happened on the bus and there hadn't been much talking or notes or phone calls since. And like Jennifer, the ground is breathing is easier for it. Things seem to fizz and pop, as the juices exchange.

Alarm clocks seem too slow, as we lean into the sunshine instead and swap out dark stumbles to sinks and toilets for liftings of window panes and bypasses of wool ensembles.

The melt ensues and the Germans call it Fruehling.

All Alone.

2010-03-07T10:59:00.001-08:00

It made a sound. I know it must have, because everything that moves makes sound.

drip.......drip.......drip.......

There was so much other noise. Your people aren't known for their stoicism. Women wailing, thieves begging, soldiers mocking, the clouds thundering,

but I can't believe you didn't hear it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Amidst the pounding of your heart, and your gasps for breath you must have heard it.

drip.......drip.......drip......

Your life was draining away and soaking into hard uncaring earth. Such loving liquid. It must have been a maddening and terrifying sound.

drip......drip.......drip......

A sinister voice in your head said, "You can make this stop." You chose the rack. You chose the noose. You chose this torture.

all alone with your

drip.....drip......drip.....

March Haiku

2010-03-05T01:28:00.000-08:00

today I dream of
July and sand in my cracks
oh fearless loofah

midnight is an old
friend who greets me with wide eyes
two lids peek SO LONG!

2010-03-03T10:56:00.000-08:00

The hair hung in his face covering his eyes but there was no doubt. He wept. Not the soft, willowy crying of a man accustomed to control, but the the penetrating wailing of a man who has just encountered the robbery of death. Deep, heavy, chest heaving, dangerous tears, moans, and mucus erupting from his face.

There was no shame. His grief was private and public. He could have been the only one standing there and his sorrow would have looked no different than it did now as he was surrounded by bewildered, wanting people.

This was a brother. Not simply a friend with whom you meet for a beer and a laugh, but someone who had shared in pain, fear, joy, conflict, and pleasure. It was the kind of pain that I imagine a tree feels as it's limbs are shorn off. The tearing of the saw into the wood, the weight of the limb as it begins to creak and fall, and the deafening crash of it hitting the ground and splintering into pieces.

The emotions acted like waves, the next one crashing as soon as the one before had subsided.

But there was no bitterness in the sorrow. No anger. It was grief unencumbered by these other emotions. Just a pure steady drip of sorrow pouring into his veins and making it's way through his body. He wondered whether he had stopped just feeling the emotion and instead had become his sorrow, it wrapped itself so completely around and through him.

He felt all this even though, within moments, through his own actions, he would be reunited with him.

Daisy's Chain

2010-03-01T19:41:00.000-08:00

It was dark. It was stormy. My trench coat felt like a 40 pound used prophylactic twisted around my torso. You get the picture.

My partner and I were walking bowlegged down an alley behind some joint called "Daisy's Chain." I wouldn't call it seedy. Seedy's too good. I'd call it a pustule on the scrotum of Gotham, but I digress.

We had received a cold tip that a big dope deal would be happening in the basement of this rat hive, and in Gotham a cold tip is as good as it gets unless you've got money. In Gotham information is money.

"I hate my job." That's my partner. Porgy. Don't ask about his name. He won't tell you, and if you ask twice you're asking for trouble. He whines almost constantly, but he's the best partner I've ever had. He's not crooked, he's not yellow, and did I mention he's not crooked?

"Shut up Porgy." I briefly stopped to relight my dart. It wasn't going to happen in this slop.

Peering in through the low basement window it was quickly obvious that our cold tip was hotter than usual. Bricks of dope were strewn across tables in a room lit by two bare bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling. The Smoked Irish had the dope on their side, and on the other side a gang of Roundeyes were keeping close tabs on several black leather briefcases. Porgy doesn't like it when I use racial slurs, but mother didn't use polite language with the various men she took into her bedroom. They always looked happy when they came out, and I never bothered to learn the correct terms. I myself am half Heeb, one quarter Taffy, and one quarter Boche.

There was no way Porgy and I would be able to touch all this heat. I was reaching for my radio to call for backup, and that's when it happened.

Nobody in the room saw him until it was too late, but I saw it like it was slow motion. One second that shadow in the corner was just a shadow, and the next second it was an unfolding mass of flying blades, smoke, and wings.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got some issues, but I know what I saw that night, so when I say wings I do mean, honest to dog, giant black wings.

The whole mass of them seemed to open fire at once. A couple of rounds even shot out the window Porgy and I were staring through, but we hardly noticed. Their bullets couldn't even touch him. He weaved in and out among them laying them all down one, two, three at a time until one last gibbering Jim Fish was all that was left conscious. He was crying out for mercy, and had a wet stream running down his leg that smelt of fear and "Daisy Chain" pecan burgers.

At that moment the creature turned and looked me straight in the eye.

The word "Run!" started bouncing around inside my skull like a cue ball in a trash can. I turned to bolt and glanced over at Porgy, but he was already gone.

March

2010-02-27T06:49:00.001-08:00

Some boast a push broom
Some a rusty wire brush
There are those who flaunt the floppy ears of a cocker spaniel
Side by side with those who take pride in a thinned smudge
Few since the forties have opted for the toothbrush
Though I suppose it'd still be kosher with a bowler top hat and some slapstick
The twirly Captain J. Hook look requires an abundance of earwax and upkeep
But it's worth the work.
Solidarity, my brother.
Tis the season.

Drawn

2010-02-27T01:16:00.000-08:00

A sketch of me lays open on his desk.
my face staring back.

he is in the middle of other projects.
he told me about this sunset he sketched out the other day;
he said it was one of those pieces you couldn't help but smile at
even though you'd made it yourself.

he said "sunsets are beautiful,
you can capture those colors a million times,
twist them on the canvass, coax them like prodding coals with a stick
and they will never stop burning"

His sunsets show the way things should be.
His sketch of me as well, it's me, but it's a little bit more y'know?
it's potential: dreamt, breathed and drawn

and I guess that's why I keep climbing the steps to his studio.
to see how things should be.
to see what my face looks like
staring back

Faithful is a dirty word to me.

2010-02-23T19:27:00.000-08:00

You used your breath to buy me food.
Breath = Food.
I would rather have gone hungry.
Now your breath is cut, your reach short.
Breath = Time.
Your hand is no longer dangerous.

Why am I still angry at you?
Anger = Time
I have been angry for too long.
I fed myself upon anger,
Anger = Food
vomited it out, and chewed the cud.

You were once young and full of hope.
Time = Hope
A boy remembers all on the river.
Hope of future kingdoms lingers.

I see it
The not yet is now.
Some heavenly lake,
blue to the bottom.
You paddle alone.
Each stroke shoots you 3 rods.
Adonis in a canoe.

Time + Love - Anger = Hope

Minnesota Necessary

2010-02-20T09:28:00.000-08:00

You can't say "Yes, please" until the third offer. It doesn't matter if your stomach started digesting itself half an hour ago and the smell of her fresh banana-nut bread has reached the furthest corners of the room; I'm sorry, you'll have to wait it out. Don't worry, it's not like that third offer won't come around in a minute here, but don't get ahead of yourself or your host. Be nice. This is Minnesota.

A few months ago I recall making a conscious decision to forgo Minnesota Nice. It wasn't an experiment, there was no trial period in mind after which careful analysis would be made and objective conclusions reached; it was just a resolution to be honest. It wasn't because I was upset with our system of excessive courtesy; I just figured that we both knew that the first two "no"s really meant "yes, but not until you ask me again". Really, I mean, when was the last time someone offered, then after the second "oh, I couldn't... are you sure?" changed their mind and said, "yeah, now that I think about it, you can't have what I just offered." I wasn't looking to be rude, just efficient.

So I had decided: "When Wayne, Tyler and I finish our gallybusters and Wayne offers to cover the tip, I'm not going to argue or jostle for position, I'm just going to let him do a generous thing. I'm still going to sincerely express my thanks for his kindness, but I'm going to skip the part where I say, 'No no no, Wayne. I've got it, let me.' Were I in Wayne's position, I'd rather just be allowed to leave the tip without a fuss. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't really want to."

This process of cutting out the superfluous and obligatory niceties worked fine with Wayne; we think alike, we know each other well enough to be confident that no offense will be taken because it's common knowledge that the other wouldn't, and won't in the future, hesitate to do the same. This whole cut-to-the-chase thing was looking promising.

I began accepting favors and compliments and beers simply by saying "yes" the first time, despite the fact that my habitual response required at least two more steps to get there. Consequently I began feeling freer to offer my own services, compliments, rations, etc., because I subconsciously assumed that others had repented of their Nice ways as well.

So in the spirit of cutting out the fluff and getting to the point, here it is: it turns out that this doesn't work at all. Not here. Before long I started viewing myself as rude, presumptuous, even self-righteous for accepting generosity without first saying, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly accept."

This accidental experiment brought me to a few conclusions:
A. Minnesota Nice is no myth.
B. It's not superfluous flattery. (Well, not always. Granted, sometimes I engage in a good old fashioned Midwest nice-off simply because I feel the need to come out on top of the heap when all the compliments are done piling up.) But really, for the most part when we say "Oh, no, I couldn't... Are you sure? I don't want to put you out... Well, alright, if you insist." we're saying the exact same thing as those who may drop the "yes, thank you" bomb in 3 quick words or less, our passive-aggressive language just requires more time to get there. We, whether by nature or nurture, go about all things indirectly.
C. I will be Minnesota Nice. Sometimes.

Mobile

2010-02-18T13:43:00.000-08:00

Some background:

I'm in the deep south where people regularly eat crawfish with sides of hushpuppies. And have winter jackets on even though it's almost 60 degrees. And pronounce words like "St. Charles" in a way that sounds more like "St. Chaaaawles."

My brother Jonah lives in the 15th poorest county in the nation. There are a lot of shacks, trailer houses, $2.99 shrimp baskets and Waffle Houses around this part of Florida. He drives a Saab.

We went to Mobile, Alabama for Mardi Gras on Tuesday. We could've driven two hours more for the experience in New Orleans, but settled for Mobile, which boasts being the site where the original Mardi Gras was started some 250+ years ago. We know nothing about Mobile or its neighborhoods. We're white Minnesotans who shudder at the thought of separate drinking fountains. We've been singing "We Shall Overcome" since elementary school with hands clasped and silhouettes of Martin Luther King hung obediently by our desks. And so we ended up on the corner of Government Street and Washington. We were the only white people there in a crowd of thousands.

And so:

We're in this place, watching black marching bands and elaborate floats go by. Sweet kids with weaved hair, collecting Moon Pies (it's what they throw from the floats) and gobs and gobs of purple, gold and green beads. A man with a straight set of gold teeth befriended us - his name was James - gave us the commentary the news anchors usually give us. Each of those floats represent a different society - a Krewe. They're all masked, they all have their private balls tonight and you have to be invited to be in with the Krewe. The Krewes are all white. Usually wealthy. Under their masks, their sparkly costumes say "KOR" (Knights of Revelry). We found out later that they began allowing black Krewes in the late 30's, but they couldn't use the same parade route as the white Krewes until 1994. They're still not in the same parades.

I kept looking around at all these people, wanted to ask with wide eyes and hand motions, "What do you think of this? Are you OK with this?"

At the turn of the 20th century, 50% of Alabama was black - all from slavery. As I looked around at the crowd surrounding us five, sore-thumb Scandinavians, I could not stop thinking about this. These people are descendants of slaves. Their grandma-grandpa family trees look like people getting sold here and working to death there. Not knowing real last names and one of heck of a road of poverty to work out of. And we found out later that somebody was shot two blocks down during the parade.

We got gobs and gobs of beads, too. 52 strings. One string whipped in our direction hit my mom in the teeth. She thought she lost a frontie. A black woman walking by told her "You gotta watch out for those - they sure send them flyin'!" My mom's eyes involuntarily watered. She said "thanks." We collected Moon Pies. And drove back to Pensacola in a Saab.

Oscar the Grouch eats an ice cream sandwhich. A hymn in the style of Tom Waits.

2010-02-17T20:23:00.000-08:00

My life blows on by
like terrestrial garbage minus meaningful graffiti
Is that your hand upon my thigh,
or are you trying to tell the time by
the way I twitch?

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Don't you take that tone with me son.
haven't you heard by now?
that you're the only one
with the real keys,
the real (expletive deleted) keys.

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

Have you ever heard the saddest song?
It's the one that no one hears
though it's played the loudest by
Nursing home ladies in knee boots and silk stockings

If you tell me I'm not real
I'll interrupt you and insist that
Oscar the grouch eats an ice cream sandwich
and spits out the pits.

I dream about your teeth weekly
they stare and spit while you sit and knit
still Oscar the grouch eats ice cream sandwiches
and he spits out the pits.

She Is For The Weak and Wise

2010-02-15T06:46:00.000-08:00

SHE is for the weak and wise.

HER, no clever coy disguise.
My sense of safety risks no rise

From SHE or HER colorless eyes.

It wasn't SHE who, all alone,
Ensnared my heart to forge HER throne.
SHE did not shatter all I'd known,

But MEGHANN splintered hope like bone.

I did not throw myself at SHE
Just to recoil instantly.
SHE uttered no heart-scouring plea,

But ANNIE bore the tragedy.

HER kiss was not the sweetest grace

That my naive young lips would taste.

Not HER green eyes did thoughts displace,

But I was lost in KALI's face.

SHE is for the weak and wise.

In dreams of HER no danger lies,

But through a name, lips, hands and eyes

Real hurts and hopes I realize.

2010-02-14T07:53:00.000-08:00

I was listening to Bull Black Nova off the latest Wilco album on the way to church this afternoon, and I was struck at how little instrumentation there is at times in that song. This got me thinking about what I was going to blog about (These days most things are becoming fodder for blogging, only I never remember what my thoughts were when actually I sit down to write).

Most people can't verbalize what makes music good. They can't tell you why they like it. They'll say, "It's got a good beat" or "the melody is really catchy". This is, of course, very true. And their inability to ascertain any more distinct reasons than that is no fault of theirs. I understand that there can only be a certain amount of nerdy people in the world who love to think about what makes music good...if we were to tip the balance, we would awaken the dark god of music snobbery and soon wars would be fought over which Death Cab for Cutie album is the best (it's Transatlanticism) not about world's remaining natural resources.

Here's what I'm mulling over. What makes music sound good, disregarding personal taste or genre? Ok, I'm not going to even attempt to come up with a totally unbiased and complete list. I'm simply going to focus on the absence of sound.

Initially, silence is the reason we like sound. The ability to string differing sonic pitches together in a pleasing way was perhaps God's greatest gift to us. That and Jesus. He's pretty great too.

But I would suggest that the use of silence or an absence of sound within a song is often what really draws us. Dynamic, crescendo, and decrescendo are what makes a song interesting to listen to. A couple of years ago a crew from Vineyard Music National paid us a visit and lead a workshop on worship leading. To illustrate the point that musicians on a worship team should listen to each other and consider how what they are doing is fitting into whatever sound the team is trying to create, the VM team began to all play as hard as they could for the entirety of a song, all playing at 100% volume, no change between chorus and verse. It was exhausting to listen to one song like that, let alone an entire set. After two songs of that, I would be done. I would lose interest, and become disengaged--I'm talking purely in a musical sense here.

When the quiet part of the song comes I find I'm drawn in more, I'm grabbed and I want to listen for what instruments are playing and how they will gather momentum again. When I talk about doing this with my weekend worship teams I'll call it "giving the song room to breath". It's a chance for the listeners to take a collective sigh. And this principle is true whether you are playing with an entire orchestra or playing solo at a coffee shop. We do not need to fill up the all the sonic space with sound. When a band or artist does that I find myself very bored with their sound.

I think I could write more but I am already late, so I will end with this. When creating music learning to musically edit yourself is worthwhile.

Runner Sled Sonnet

2010-02-11T18:13:00.000-08:00

How long I pause upon that lofty hill

Until my courage summoning I give a kick

And swim out from the slow into the quick

Runners hum and bite, deck sings, snow spits and fills

Mittons, glasses fog, a quickly wiped spectacle

Lean hard! shift, scrape rocks and sticks,

A sudden jolt and brief flight nearly flicks

Our hero, but for my grip and steely will.

Freedom! In that moment pure

Danger married to delight, and laughter

Bubbles out, I fly across the fen

It is such heady wine and sure

Enough, The ditch! road flying under, and after

Coming to a rest, hoist my steed, and climb again.

Old Poem

2010-02-10T06:39:00.000-08:00

Here are the titles, here are the stories, here are the woes and misfortunes of the life that loathes and respects the solitude of souls...

Here are the porings, the loves the lusts and happenings, here are the darknesses represented in happinesses, the smiles the glimpses and the lapses...

Here are the broken, here are the thought to be healed and forged and tap dances, here are the feelings, here are the thoughts and emotions of the emotionless forgetfulness of lost friends, and new brothers...

Here is to long lengths, and extreme measures, here is to wash outs and walk ons, here is to pain and plain view disdain, here is to men of valor forgotten by opinions, and the women who stood at their side thought to be slaves, but never happier and proud to be the reinforcement for an army that would of never made it without them...

Here is my soul, here is my spirit, here is my mind and all kinds of lost hurt, here is the love that no one has seen, and no one will, here is to imperfection, and how it pisses me off, here is to my demeanor, and the way I walk, here is to pride and the way it destroys all men, until their redemption or as I call it their compensation...

This is what I see when I look down, a foot, now leave it alone...

This is what I see when I look up, a face, a case of mystery laced by my doubt and distributed by my bull shit and love to see people who are happy, and lost in their misery coming out of pain, only because I did that once and I wish I could do it every day until I die, for that was the day I fell in and out of love...

When I look at my left hand I see a person I do not know, and am not sure if I want to be...

When I look at my right hand, I see one corrupted by a world I knew nothing of until I was taken out of it, I’m not a victim, I am the perpetrator, I am the prosecutor and the remnant left behind by the sin that filled me, how could I ever be the perfection that was asked of me, I don’t think I could ever be what he asks me to be, from on high, I’ve always felt perpetually out of place and never at home, and they say that’s because this isn’t my home, and I ask should that debilitate me...

When I look at my heart it is a weak one, its one that the father shunned for its very nature is death, and I use it with my every breathe, but to no avail for by His power I deny it, but I still soak in the presence of what I will be until the day I die, which is that sinner, and that lie...

I am not something special, that he died as I still was a betrayer, and the only Love I have comes from a man, that I have never seen, and wont until he awakens my heart and makes it strong eternally by his uttered word, it is his command I wait for, everything from my fingers to my core...

2010-02-09T22:31:00.000-08:00

Late.
I worked at a summer camp on the construction crew. I don't really construct much. My boss was a guy who had made millions as a private contractor. He reminded us from time to time that we'd never make it in the industry- if we weren't working for a christian summer camp.
One morning he decided that we'd been late too often. We being Spev, Myself, Burley and Ben. He decided that he would start the truck at 6:59 and put it into drive at 7am sharp. The first morning we were early. The second morning found Ben and Burley running after the truck. Really this whole post could be about Burley- his name was a true oxymoron. At 5'10, 130 lbs Burley was anything but. He was not strong. He was not technically skilled. He was not big. He wore a fisherman's hat, sunblock everywhere and those clip on glasses that are designed to shade your eyes or be used as paddles if you find yourself mid-lake without one.

This post is not about Burley. It's about comparison.

I always thought I was fine if I was better than the guy next to me. I wasn't that late if I was there at 7:03 as long as Burley and Ben were there at 7:05 or 7:20 as often the case was. My boss leveled the field. He put the truck into drive at 7am. If you were late you were late- not a little less late than so-and-so. Check yourself. It's only you. It's only me.

So, I write this, at 12:43. Trying to catch the truck.

Just Take Me Home Already

2010-02-08T06:32:00.000-08:00

You know better than I do how quickly we could be through all this.

So why? Why let me waddle around in shit? What kind of parent are You?

Just grab my wrist, slap it hard, and make me get into the cosmic minivan.

Ground me. Send me to bed without dinner. Whatever.

Just take me home already.

I know You're patient.

In fact, that's the problem; I'm growing to despise Your patience.

But I suppose You'll be patient about that, too.

Remember when You knew my left knee wouldn't carry me

So You fixed it?

Just like that?

Well can't You just do it again?

I mean, it's basically the same thing.

Somewhere in my head my joints don't work right.

They're rusted out hinges. They're bent.

They stick; I want to do right by You but my hinges stick.

I want to quit shoving my nasty hands into those piles of filth.

I get coffee grounds under my fingernails.

I get used tissues and feminine products stuck to the backs of my hands.

I get bits of busted light bulbs embedded in my forearms.

I get to the bottom. I touch it a couple times. I look around a little.

Then I retrieve my hand and lick it.

I grimace and decide not to do it again.

I feel sick for a day.

I write about it online, like I'm determined to change it.

But I can't.

But You can!

Look, You know I hate this.

I know You hate this.

Can't that be enough?

Journey

2010-02-07T13:12:00.000-08:00

This is what I think it should look like. Intense closeness with the Holy Spirit, where my identity is firmly planted in him, Jesus' eyes become mine and I spend my day doing what the father is doing, loving on people. Time spent every day soaking in the Word, my heart being a sponge that hungrily soaks up words of life and truth and wisdom, and I walk away changed, cut to the quick, and able to quote entire passages from 1 and 2 Kings. All activities become worship, including eating breakfast, having meetings, checking my email, writing in blogs, taking a shower, drinking coffee, driving my sweet ride, and playing Gladius on Xbox. I think I equate this with some sort of advanced level of meditation, like reaching some sort of nirvana type state. My eyes are always filled with peace, I stop chewing my nails, and a shimmering halo appears above my head.

And I have never attained this. And I never will. And knowing this has been the cause to no end of consternation and condemnation. I have always held my daily walk up to this standard and found it to be entirely lacking. I believed that upon reaching a certain age (21, 25, 27) that this would suddenly and quite inexplicably be reversed, and holiness would be attained.

It's always been about the destination. I've defined it, and been focused on reaching it.

I believed that older men in my life had reached this state, but it turns out even Jerry Kaldor, Joe Harting and Michael Gatlin still haven't seen this sanctification come to fruition. As much as these men are living lives dedicated to the pursuit of Jesus, I still don't spy sparkling halos peaking out from behind their heads.

Lately Jesus has been telling me it's not about this destination I've created. And I am relieved. It's about the journey forward. We strive for the prize, but the prize isn't sanctification but rather the prize is Jesus. We get him.

And we're all on this journey. We're all in pursuit of this prize. And as a 27 year old worship pastor, I'm not "there". And as a 87 year old ornery codger, I still won't be "there". But each day between now and then, I will strive for the prize, I will dive into this dangerous relationship with my Creator who is crazy about me, and let him deposit the discipline in me to keep my fingernails out of my mouth.

RSVP Ignored

2010-02-06T09:58:00.000-08:00

I can imagine their wedding dance. My mom in her starched,  

lacey-white, matrimonial cowboy hat and my dad keeping

 a beat with only the occasional squat and sway of his  gray,

tuxed hips. And while they maybe two-stepped to a little  John Denver,

a corsaged Aunt Kathy held post at  the guestbook - the one with the

enormous plumed pen that  ran out of ink somewhere between

Great Uncle Leonard and a  surname of Lundgren.

Did someone scratch my name  down in those gray, embossed pages?

I was there, too. I was there humming along to “Country Roads”

and feeling  the waltzing chafe of Grandpa Shermer’s midsection

as he  shuffled through a dollar’s worth of dance.

Between twirls  and dips on chipped, church linoleum and

niceties with the  horn-rimmed organist, I, too blushed at the

joke repertoire coming from  Uncle George and

other schnockered uncles circling  near the cake. Preludes of

“a guy walks into a bar” and  “one man says to another man”

were met with slaps on suited knees, a swallow of Grain Belt and

bites of marble cake smothered  in white-ish frosting.

And with each punch line, I made myself more at home in the first trimester.   

I hope Mom sipped a Grain Belt that night.

 I hope her dress was cinched tight around her waist.

 I hope that they had no idea I was there, hiding  

somewhere between her bladder and spleen, already

 developing a taste for dancing around in dresses.

beauty

2010-02-05T15:11:00.000-08:00

beauty.

There are things that are so beautiful to me that I have a hard time thinking about them coherently. My daughter's eyes are deep blue pools of mystery. Maybe you didn't know that. Now you know.

She looks up straight into my eyes from her 30'' post and time doesn't stand still so much as become warped and strange. I see in the deep blue of her eyes tremendous courage, and not just grit your teeth courage, but the courage that literally laughs at danger. She has the courage to roll right off the changing table without flinching, crawl out of her high-chair and across the table without the slightest hesitation. Her baths are not so much about cleanliness as they are opportunities to plunge her own face beneath the water repeatedly just for the wet splashy fun of it. In her eyes there is total wonder and amazement for every new thing. When was the last time you were in total wonder and amazement?

The love she expresses to me in a simple look is tangible. I can choose to sit passively in the room with it like a fat guy in a recliner sits with his TV thinking about cracking open another Grain Belt, or I can take it in and savor it like one of Trevor's amazingly feckless caramel rolls that dance around your mouth like sensual Russian dancers until they collapses from pleasure, fall, and slide down your throat into your gullet.

I used to sit in the room with Love. Love used to bounce tennis balls off of my head just to get me to look away from the asinine computer games. Love used to kick at my shins and call me silly names just to get me to crack a smile, but I mostly ignored it. I even thought Love was driving my dick into a woman as hard and frequently as possible. It's not, by the way.

You can sit in the same room with Love for years, and I did until Love dunked me under the water so deep that I forgot my self loathing. I forgot my insecurity. Shame. Guilt. Inadequacy. I forgot my daddy issues and addictions. Love held me under the water thrashing and dieing until I forgot to not breathe, and came up choking, screaming, mostly dead, and totally clean.

My daughters eyes are pools of mystery. With her eyes she gives me an almost ceaseless stream of love. I don't just sit in the room with it. I take it in, savor it, and let it swirl around inside of me. My daughters eyes are deep blue pools of mystery. Maybe you didn't know that.

Now you know.

Mirror

2010-02-04T14:28:00.000-08:00

I came in and was dripping wet. The stainless steel furniture and white walls almost blinded me but I was ready for them to invade my space once again. When ever I came in from the damp character ridden world outside my door, the cleanliness of my apartment seemed to always catch me off guard. Though at once it put me to ease to know I was home. Work had been exceptionally difficult to cope with today. I had had unfinished business with an old flame. It had opened old wounds, but now it was all finished so I needn’t worry about it any more.

I slipped off my coat and let out a large sigh that to me rang off the walls of my little apartment. I sat in my favorite chair and again sighed. I still had my drenched coat in my hand and I stared long at the wall in front of me. After a short while my head fell back onto my chair and my eyes closed. I quickly entered a dream. It seemed to me it was more of a memory, when I had first met her. Lala. She was fantastic, and instantly I attributed her to the song of that name. Yet in my dream she never faced me. She was wearing all black. And her shoulders heaved up and down as if she was weeping. I tried to touch her, but every time I spun her around, it was her back I would see, and then I took my hands off her shoulders and they were covered in blood.

I sprang my neck forward and looked at my watch, 530. It had been a short nap. I looked down and saw my jacket on the floor I picked it up after slipping off my shoes and setting them next to the chair. I went to hang up the coat… “Damn!” my wet coat had created a puddle the size of Lake Michigan and now my right sock was soaked all along the bottom and I caught sight of it quick enough to see the moisture travel up the sock to just above my arch.

After I hung up my coat I took off my socks and jumped in the puddle my jacket had left behind, by spreading out the water it would dry quicker, and for once I could forget about work, and feel like a kid again. I walked down the hallway towards the bath room. But I stopped once again and began to stare, this time out the window. The window was fogged over, but water dripping on the inside and outside cleared little lines of substance for me to indulge in. I looked at my watch, 630. That was a good day dream. I reached my hand around the corner and flipped on the light in the bathroom and poked my head around the corner to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I paused. Then headed for my bedroom.

As I entered my room, I slipped off my shirt. I feel on my bed. Grabbing a slice of day old room temperature pizza. I ate it, counting the cracks in the ceiling. Upon arriving at 44 I got up and went back to the bathroom. I squared up to the mirror. I looked in my own brown eyes for what seemed like long enough not to see anything. Then followed my nose, crooked long nose to my prudish lips. I practiced a few smiles but my teeth aren’t straight enough for smiling, though their color is well suited for the task.

My arms did not betray my occupation. Though my jaw line may to a person with a keen sense about them. My hands, my hands betray all things, from death to ignorance, to justice and wisdom. When it came to it, my body could and would not be seen as anything other than a young man, but my eyes… those eyes, those are the eyes of a murderer.

Love.

2010-02-03T05:55:00.000-08:00

Love.

"Don't want a spanking."
"Yes, and I don't want to give you one." But I do.
I won't let you have candy because you scream and kick.
I won't give in, and drive through McDonald's in response to chants.
If you hit another kid, I won't assume it was his fault.
If you throw a tantrum, I will not coo and coddle.

I will spank you.
I will hug you and wipe your tears,
pull up your pants to cover your red ass,
but I will spank you.

I won't let you stay outside past dark and play with the neighborhood boys.
"Aw, he's so cute." will not be my response to defiant screams of "no."
If you turn a deaf ear to my requests, I will not do in kind.
"donwanna, no, dowwanna..." is not English, but I'm sure translates roughly to "I'm cranky, I'm pretty sure I can get whatever I want, but what I really need right now is somebody to love me enough to spank me good."

I will spank you.
and you will hug me.
you will dig your little fingers into my shirt
and bury your blurry face into my chest
and I will hold you tight.

If I don't...
I might as well give you the bits of broken glass you clamor for,
All the sugar your eyes can behold, your fists can grasp and your lips can pass,
that boiling pot of water? yes, son it's yours,
and sh**, well I wouldn't pet that barking, salivating dog, but if it's what you want, go ahead reach out your fleshy little fingers and pet.

Eleven. Twenty-Two. Thirty-Three. Etcetera.

2010-02-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

In late March 2008 I found myself totally wrapped up in two albums: Flogging Molly's "Drunken Lullabies" and the self-titled project from Ben Kweller. In late February 2009 I had a solid hankerin' for both once again so I burned them onto a disc and labeled it "Flogging Ben Kweller". Last week I got that very same taste in my ears while I was on my way out to a good buddy's house in West Duluth. As I sifted through my disc collection looking for "Flogging Ben Kweller" I was so tied up in the anticipation of the enrapturement that I'd enjoy when I finally popped that puppy into my CD player that I sideswiped a snowbank in my trusty old Lumina. Poor beauty.

Don't worry, she was fine. I'm not interested in talking about my car right now, or Ben Kweller, or inebriated Irishmen. This is simply the most recent manifestation of a personal phenomenon I began noticing a few years back:

My specific taste in music, literature, and movies runs in an 11 month cycle.

I first noticed that my tastes were constantly jogging on this not-quite-annual treadmill during my sophomore year at UMD, and let me tell you, whatever this thing is, it's a juggernaut. I can't stop it, I can't even curb it, I can't guess as to its source, and, honestly, I have no desire to deny it the control it so readily snatches from me whenever it rolls around. At this moment I would love to watch the Planet Earth documentaries because that's what I was doing two years ago during Mustache March. When I go home I'll probably grab up and devour my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because that's what I was reading last February when I wasn't watching Planet Earth. Next January I'll probably be listening to my most recent love, "The Seldom Seen Kid" by Elbow as I drive home to read a chapter or two from ZAMM and fall asleep to the voice of David Attenborough narrating the dance of the ellusive Bird of Paradise.

Whatever this dictator of taste inside of me is made of or birthed from, I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love knowing exactly what will tickle my listening fancy the most at this very moment. I love knowing which book is going to most firmly hold my tired attention tonight when I get home from work. I could set my watch by my media appetites, and that's fine by me. But the problems surface when a roommate wants to watch Shawshank Redemption in June, or when my iTunes library is playing on shuffle.

"I'm sorry, Spoon, it's nothing personal. 'Gimme Fiction' was great and all, but... well, look, your timing isn't great. It's not you, it's me, I swear. I'll see you in July. I just ...I'm sorry." *Next >>*

2010-02-01T18:20:00.000-08:00

I got a membership at Anytime Fitness today. And ran for 23 minutes. Made it 2 miles. And wanted to throw up immediately after.

I'm compiling a list of reasons why this working out thing is a good idea.

1. I will become more fit. (so far nothing...)
2. I will relieve stress. (I'm more stressed about how I hurt all over.)
3. I will lose weight. (nope, not yet)
4. It will release endorphins and eventually become pleasurable. (don't believe it)

Before you say, "Well, Asa, you've only gone once!" which I'm sure you've already thought, I do have a limited grasp on reality and am aware of this fact. But I'm in pain, and I need an outlet. They said we could write about anything...

There is one very clear and present reason that I'm agreeing to work out 12 times a month (my insurance kicks in twenty bucks if I can drag my butt there 12 times). Soon after the 3rd annual St. Gary's New Years Eve party, pictures of the evening began surfacing on facebook, and I had a rather startling and unpleasant realization. My face has gotten fat. I have a fat face. Well, fatter than it once was. And this, this alone, may be the largest contributing factor to getting a gym membership. This is embarrassing to admit, but the truth is I'm admittedly lazy, and the pain of this realization is proving to be the catalyst for what will, hopefully, turn into an endeavor into better health.

So now I will be regularly be spending part of my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays with a veritable cornucopia of Duluth denizens all seeking to either lose a little weight, like myself, or and add a little muscle weight. I'm not sure I will have much of an opportunity to build any relationship with these fine folk as I was literally unable to form a sentence after I stepped off the treadmill today. What with the snot and sweat and heavy breathing, who can say if they would even be interested in a conversation.

I am finding that everyone has an opinion about the appropriate way to work out/lose weight/get fit. And I'm never quite sure who to take seriously and who to completely disregard. I've decided that I will not listen to anyone who is not actually in shape. If their advice was so worth taking why are they not taking it? And I don't buy, "Well, it worked at one time, when I was younger." Instead I will seek out physically fit individuals and grill them about diet, workout regimens, how to not fall off the elliptical machine, and whether or not it's normal to sweat so much that it looks like I just took a shower with my clothes on.

last family vacation

2010-01-31T12:16:00.000-08:00

The main players used to be a gold, Silhouette van, a travel-size game of Connect Four sans 3-5 red or black chips every time we met a pothole, and my mom crying because the hotel room smelled like cigarettes/her Aunt Phyllis' house/swimming pool and we were too close to the raucous ice machine/parking lot/lobby. But we were going to Yellowstone/Gettysburg/Vancouver/Uncle Terry's. And dad had a whole week off and a cooler packed with Juicy-Juice and Duos (those cups of jello + yogurt purchased in tens at Super One). So it was vacation.

We went on for years like that. Hauling across the country, smelling geysers, downing juice boxes, taking blurry pictures of buffalo and mountains. At one point, probably on a stretch in Saskatchewan, my mom threw a whole ham sandwich at my dad. The whole thing. Smears of mayo, cheese and slimy disc of lunchmeat. All of it. None of us remember why, but all of us remember how things suddenly got very serious in that van and how dad got out and sat on the bumper for a full half hour afterwards.

It went on for years like that.

At some unnameable age, though, it all stops. Summer vacation completely disappears. We don't look at maps to National Parks. A week off isn't so easily taken as it was when you were at Dairy Queen. Keith or Gina aren't around to take your shifts and make Buster Bars just as well as you could. Nowadays, people are talking marriage and the van won't hold them all. Plus, the van got traded for something more practical. Something that doesn't need space for carseats.

What happens to family vacations then? Do they get multiplied the way a batch of rye dough gets turned into clovered, little potluck buns? Will our families throw sandwiches and demand you play Wee Sing America? Will we keep stealing each other's pillows, not keeping our hands to ourselves, but poking our neighbors instead and suffering from bloodshot eyes, filmed with hotel pool chlorine?

outliers of a different sort.

2010-01-30T20:42:00.000-08:00

I'll be honest with you. My default response is judgment.

Mothers who yell at their 2 year old boys to shut up, let them play in busy streets, and walk around in -10 degree below zero weather without hat or mittens make me angry. Angry maybe isn't a strong enough word. Perhaps indignant is better. It starts out as anger, morphs into regret and repentance, and finally meanders it's way to the back door called compassion, but my point is not my broken response to brokenness.

Have you read Malcolm Gladwell's book "Outliers?" You should. In it he writes about the mysterious and almost random sets of circumstances that set various people up for success, but I wonder if it's limited to success. In fact, it seems obvious to me now that it's not. Many sorts of people seem destined to fall down, melt into a pool, and sink down into those weed filled cracks . Folks grow up dirt poor. They grow up in the system living off of handouts and becoming far too used to it. Boys grow up to be wife beaters, and girls grow up to be single moms, let their kids play out on busy streets unsupervised in -10 degree weather, and with no gloves or hats.

It's dangerous to write in generalities, but I'm starting to think that there are failure "outlier" traits. I'm also starting to think that maybe that's who Jesus was talking about when he stood up in the temple, grabbed the scroll of Isaiah, and started describing his kingdom "...good news for the poor... freedom for the prisoners... recovery of sight (does an outlier know that she is one?)... set free the oppressed... proclaim that it's the season for experiencing Abba's affection (Italics mine)." Outliers every one.

1-minute rant

2010-01-29T15:24:00.000-08:00

The bliss the kiss the hiss of the black lit wondering aimlessly the wondering the wondering the seemingly lost the falling the left the broken the failing falling falling the generation contempt the post apocalyptic abundance of the fear oh you oh you little faith you oh you oh you generation of fear, where have you lifted your eyes where have you lifted your face the lingo the bingo you retirement home busy bodies why oh why have you lost the line walking walking walking the falling falling falling the left side gone wrong the right side gone gone and still we see we see we see we try and try to believe and the lingo so gone gone gone and by the way where have the hereos gone the lingo gone the bingo gone gone gone and here we are the busy bodies the busy bodies the lingo bingo bingo and the lingo lingo lingo and the weird the feared the misguided and the ones who look in gutters and see home the poor the lost the empty the craving the forgotten you my friends you see you see you see and yet you have not seen open your hearts my man open your hearts it’s the sight of the blind your missing I had a God once say to me how about your eyes on me and i’ll guide you where to you should look and I looked at him I rose my face to Him and I found life I surrendered and it looked to me the worst route the one I had given up on the one I looked to drunken ceilings passing out the eyes closing the last words dripping the the ones losing the ones losing the ones losing and still the sigh of the blind could not be predicted and the bitterness still rages in a soul still lost in the one who still searches like the seek like the knock like the asking asking asking you raking raking raking and still no one sees the lenses you view life through you middle class subservient dumby look around you the world doesn’t get you, your reality is not the reality of the real your own mind lost in predictions your own mind trying to grasp at straws that don’t exist and still you try you seek and you try and still you seek and you try and you seek and you try and like a rat going back to the shock you keep on going back like the dog eating his own lost lost lost and still you still do not get it, you fall asleep empty and still you do not wake fed you drag and drag and drag your feet from the mattress and still you do not see and still you do not see it is like you have not gotten anywhere and still you return from the same route like you like the goodbye kiss of depravity and still you do not get it, search the way your hearts wants to search and you’ll find what it is you want to find i guarantee it ok don’t worry about the things you want to worry about, don’t worry about the image the cribbage the symmetry that no ones else really wants to check out these words from one who only types to get the words out and it seems like there are those look over my shoulders and it’s all de’ja vu? haha.